The Art of Drowning
by Floralia
Summary: It had known it was finished.  It was what it had done with its last few seconds on earth that caused Dean to wish it wasn't just so he got to kill it again, and remember to really savour it this time.


**Title**: The Art of Drowning

**Summary**: It had known it was finished. It was what it had done with its last few seconds on earth that caused Dean to wish it wasn't just so he got to kill it again, and remember to really savour it this time

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing of the Winchesters what-so-ever. I don't own Gill either.

**A/N1: **This is a slightly early birthday dedication to Sendintheclowns, who will have to pretend she hasn't already read it twice and provided beta services (thanks for that). You deserve something new but life wasn't cooperating. Thanks to Gidgetgal9 too for the twice-over, and to Carocali who I think also took as pass at this way back when.

**A/N2**: Set early season 2, which was when I started writing it. This took a lot longer to get done than mindless fluff has any right to, but Sam kept stepping in and angsting up the ending in that way that he has. Since _Keeping Cover_ turned out to be all hurt no comfort this was supposed to be the other way around, although you need some hurt to give the comfort context, right? Right?

**A/N3:** Please excuse the random sentence about a third of the way down, it's the site's own contribution and it doesn't seem to want to let me delete it (if you've no idea what I'm talking about maybe I fixed it by now)

-0-

Waking was a slow process; he was unable to pinpoint the exact moment in which it happened. There was a vast floating darkness and he was lost in it for, it could have been minutes, it could have been hours, or it could even have been days.

And then there was a surface beneath him, soft yet firm. He didn't know when it had appeared, or if in fact it had appeared at all; was starting to realise that maybe there was a discrepancy, some kind of time lag between when it had got there and when he had _noticed_ it had got there.

When that thought hit he started to wonder just what else he had been missing, just what else was lost out there in the darkness that maybe he should know about.

It was some time after this when he realised there was a weight pressing down on him, warm and comfortable, too, and yet restricting. He had no intention of moving, no concept of a body to be able to move, and yet he somehow already knew he wouldn't be able to. At least, he would not be able to get far.

Not long after realising the weight was warming, he decided that he was cold. It was a strange realisation, because he still couldn't really feel much of anything and his limbs were still lost in the darkness around him – at least he was now aware enough to know that he should _have_ limbs – but they were cold, so the comfortable warming sensation around him was a good thing.

He knew he was safe; that was never in question. He didn't know how he knew – the darkness was obviously concealing things from him, things he was only slowly beginning to pick out – but he knew it was concealing nothing that could hurt him.

There was a sound in the darkness; deep and rhythmic and soothing. Concentrating on it he lost track of all the other little discoveries he had made over the past few minutes/months/years. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was sure it was the source of the security he could feel. It seemed to be telling him it was okay to go back and get lost in the pleasant blackness for a while. There was nowhere else he needed to be.

It was strange, that steady relaxing sound was the thing that allowed him to float blissful in his ignorance, but it was also the thing that finally fully woke him. Because he worked out what it was. Deep, even, breathing. Life. And it wasn't locked away here in the darkness with him. It was an external sound, guiding him home.

Dean.

With that moment of clarity the surface and the covers and the cold came rushing back. Numbing, paralysing cold. The darkness receded slightly. He wasn't lost to it; his eyes were closed. From there it was only a small, gentle step to opening them again.

He squinted into the light, the sun streaming through partially drawn curtains. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, his chest hurt, breathing _hurt. _The limbs he had not been able to feel while drifting were now tingling under the heavy swaddling blankets.

He was just deciding this opening his eyes business had not been a good move when he saw the source of the sound that had woken him.

Dean sat in a chair at the side of his bed, feet propped up on top of the covers at Sam's shoulder, head lolling to the side, somehow managing to look both watchful and deeply asleep. Dean looked exhausted; his face was drawn. Sam would wait until Dean roused so he could tell him he was awake, then he would go back to sleep again.

Decision made, Sam set himself to finding some form of entertainment until his brother finally woke. Prodding him awake seemed cruel somehow - Dean looked to be in need of rest - and would have involved moving, and even in his semi-conscious state Sam had acknowledged he was tucked in too tightly to attempt any such thing.

He was tucked in. In bed. Practically smothered in a veritable banquet of material of every variety. Sheets, duvet, blanket, towel. You name it he had it. Practically everything that wasn't fixed down was draped over his form and the weight of it was suddenly crushing. It was _heavy_. No way was he going to be able to lift it. To move. He _should_ have been able to lift it, right? A few blankets and a bedspread. He was fairly sure that was usually within the realm of his capabilities. This meant there was another, underlying, factor to why he could not seem to be able to move.

Well everything _hurt_. That seemed like as good a place as any to start this investigation.

Motel room! They were in their motel room. He recognised the creepy picture of the horse staring at him from the opposite wall. The exercise in beige.

If they were in their room Sam didn't quite want to think about why Dean was asleep on a chair rather than his bed, but the tiny corner of the other bed that he could see had been stripped of its covers – naturally, it felt like the entire motel had – so that could account for it.

But what accounted for that?

Dean was wearing his thick jacket still - well, Sam _did_ have _all_ the covers, and it was so very very cold. He looked dressed for the outdoors. Now, Dean could be an outdoors kind of a guy, but he looked prepared for the extreme outdoors. Had they been outdoors? He was fairly certain they had been outdoors - in fact, being outside made more sense to him than being in this room did. He was sure the last thing he remembered before the blackness was being in the open air. The wind against his skin. The moon reflecting on the lake, then a biting, biting cold.

And water.

Water in places water was not supposed to be. Like his eyes.

His mouth.

His lungs.

Damn.

Well, that could explain why they hurt. Why it still _hurt_ just to _breathe_. Why he was still cold under his wealth of blankets. It could explain the dark circles that lined his brother's eyes, the deep creases in his brow. The haunted look.

That he had no memory what-so-ever between being underwater at night and swaddled in the sunlight was a little disconcerting, and he shifted uncomfortably. Or at least, he tried to. But squirming pulled his chest muscles and man they were _bruised_, bruised to the bone, and he didn't even want to think about what that meant. The pain of it left him gasping raw burning air down a passage that had not so long ago decided once and for all that it didn't want to have to deal with air any more, and then he was coughing – as if there was any way _that_ wasn't going to hurt – and there was choking, and mild gagging, and excruciating rib action that made his eyes water, and he was beginning to agree with the whole air being bad thing and….

Dean jolted awake, nearly falling backwards off the chair in his haste to get his feet on the ground.

"Hey there," Dean offered, steadying himself. "I need you to try and calm down."

Sam stared at him with wide, slightly disparaging, eyes. It wasn't a matter of staying calm. He'd been perfectly calm a few seconds ago. This was purely involuntary.

"It's okay. Just breathe through it."

What did Dean think had started this whole thing off in the first place? Breathing was the _last_ thing he wanted to be doing.

One minute Dean was leaning over him and the next, with no warning, hands were under Sam's shoulders and he was being levered upwards. He would have screamed if he hadn't known it would be a really bad idea. Would have pummelled every inch of his brother he could find if that hadn't involved more energy than he had, if he hadn't been unusually impressed by Dean's ability to lift both him and the blankets – although to be fair the extent to which they were tucked around him did seem to cause Dean some trouble.

But now he was slightly more propped up it _was_ a little easier to breathe, and Dean rubbing soothing circles on his back and his calm murmuring were almost hypnotic, and Sam soon found his body beginning to relax.

"Here, take this. Just a little." Before he was aware what was happening Dean had placed a glass at his lips, and when he opened his mouth to protest Dean tipped faintly and the water flooded in.

There was a split second of panic at the ice cold water hitting his throat, but that was all it took. His body gagged to try and expel it and he was choking again. The memory and fear that the feeling of water invading his mouth, that the coughing and the struggle for air brought up, were almost more painful than the pull on his abused chest and throat. Everything was starting to go cloudy around the edges of his vision in an alarmingly familiar way, and he had to close his eyes in the hope he could ignore it.

When he opened them again the world was quiet; the spluttering was over and all was still except for the rhythmic rise and fall beneath his head, a fast thump, thump, thump in his ear that betrayed what the calm breathing was trying to conceal, and the hand still rubbing circles on his back. He was no longer choking, and while the process of pulling in air still hurt he didn't think he was going to start up again anytime soon.

At least he hoped not.

He was inexpressibly comfortable, but Dean was still talking to him and seemed to require some kind of a response. He lacked the energy to sit up by himself, but from the slightest twitch Dean knew what he was trying to do and helped him out.

Lifting his head from Dean's chest met some resistance in the form of a clingy, mucus like saliva that seemed determined to maintain the connection. Following its trail with his eyes Sam realised the front of Dean's shirt was wet. Now he was thinking about it, he was fairly sure his face was too. In fact, the thin line of drool had parted company with his brother's chest and was even now dangling in a string from Sam's chin.

"G'd 's dignified," he croaked, wincing.

"Yeah." Dean sounded equally as hoarse, and wiped Sam's face with the sleeve of his own flannel shirt like Sam was five. "You should probably go easy on the talking for a while."

Sam nodded and swallowed nervously.

"'m 'wake now," he announced, remembering the mission he had set himself and the promised reward, which was looking more and more appealing.

"What did I just say?" Dean groaned in exasperation, watching as Sam winced again. Sam would have brought a hand up to rub at his sore ribs if he could locate them, but his hands seemed still tucked away in the vast folds of his cocoon.

Dean ducked into his line of sight, trying to catch his eye. Sam wasn't entirely sure what Dean was looking for but figured he would maybe relax when he saw it, only that didn't seem to happen and Sam's attention was waning, his eyes beginning to slip closed again.

"Hey, look at me a sec," Dean pleaded, gripping Sam's chin and tilting it in a way that made the room spin. He whimpered and tried to pull away but Dean's hand was firm. "Look at me," Dean repeated.

It was an effort to keep his eyes open, and it took longer than he'd have liked for them to focus on Dean's face, but as soon as they did his brother sighed and relaxed into his and swallowed nervously.

he talking for a hile." was five. "n that seemed determined to maintain the conection. followi

"There you are," Dean whispered, and god, Dean actually smiled and was looking at him as though he'd just done something amazing, and Sam felt like an ass but he was going to have to close his eyes again.

"Sorry, it's all right, you can relax. You feeling better now? I can't believe I fell asleep. Idiot. I was supposed to be checking you were still breathing, some use I am," Dean was muttering, mostly to himself, as he arranged Sam back under the covers again.

Sam wasn't one hundred per cent sure what had happened but he was fairly sure Dean was responsible for the fact he was breathing at all, so the personal attack could not have been less necessary. Unfortunately, he didn't think he wanted to try talking to the degree that would be required to express that. Dean had unwrapped Sam slightly to make it easier for him to breathe so he took advantage of having an arm free, raising it to give Dean's a light squeeze.

It was about all he had the energy left for at the moment, so it would have to do.

Dean responded with a "yeah well" that seemed to close the conversation, so Sam filed it away as something to be brought up later. Dean still looked to be worried, was still staring at him and holding on like he couldn't bear to let go. The fact he hadn't teased or protested in any way to having been drooled and coughed on spoke volumes right now, but as much as he might want to issue some form of reassurance Sam simply could not stay awake any longer.

-0-

Dean was eating peanuts and reading a magazine on the bare bed next to Sam's when his brother next opened his eyes. He'd struck a nonchalant pose, but figured the fact his eyes were darting continually between Sam and the page probably gave him away. That and the fact Dean seemed to realise Sam was awake before Sam did.

"How you doing?" he asked, moving back over to the seat he had left at his brother's side, where he could hover under the guise of getting more comfortable.

"Better," Sam rasped, attempting to sit up then clearly thinking better of it. He looked more awake, but the energy to move was likely still a work in progress.

"Here, can you take this?" Dean asked, holding a thermometer out in front of his brother's face. Sam just glanced at him quizzically. "That water was _cold_ man. I've been trying to get your body temperature up. How are you feeling, are you feeling cold?"

Sam had to stop and think about that one, shifting slightly in the bed as he did so. Knowing that Sam was still trying to sit up Dean reached forwards to move the pillows, propping him upright. Having Sam sitting made it easier to get the thermometer in his brother's ear.

"Little," Sam decided at last, scowling at Dean for not having waited for an answer before trying to get one of his own. The scowl turned into a smile when Dean immediately drew the covers closer around Sam's shoulders to keep him warm.

"Shut up," he murmured, then, "Yeah, you're still a little cold." He frowned at the thermometer. "But it's better than it was. You remember what happened?"

Sam just nodded slightly forlornly. He'd gone in the water. To be fair he wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up in there, but the fact he had was clear enough. And he found the how mattered little to him right now. That Dean had got him out again was the important part.

"One minute you were standing there, the next you were just gone, and I was too far…" Dean trailed off, shaking his head. Sam was finally propped semi-upright and looked alert, and he really didn't want to have to think about the next part any more. Not that he would ever be free of it.

Sam had now finally got the strength and the co-ordination to raise a hand to his chest, probing gingerly the damage there, and Dean didn't like the look in his eyes as he did so.

"You woke briefly at the park, do you remember? You woke, you were talking to me, otherwise I would never have…" He would have gone to a hospital, perhaps he _should_ have gone to a hospital, but Sam had been conscious and vocal and _breathing_ and Dean didn't want to have to let him out of his sight again. So okay, it had only been for a short time, and he had been less than coherent, and he had passed out soon after for the next seven hours, but again with the _breathing._

Sam's hand had left his chest and found Dean's arm again giving it a light squeeze accompanied by a sad smile, a combination that said 'thank you' and 'sorry' and 'you did the right thing, the _only_ thing', but how did Sam know, Sam hadn't been there?

"You were awake. And you were talking." Even if he had been so cold and blue and shaking, Dean felt the need to justify this; that he hadn't been gambling with his brother's life. Hadn't merely dumped him in bed and then fallen asleep himself without a second thought.

Sam raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at him questioningly, with a slight smile that made Dean reach out and grip the arm that was still extended towards him, Sam's fingers still enclosing his wrist. He gave the arm a rub, because Sam was still cold; the thermometer said so.

"Something about waffles," he answered Sam's question, a grin pulling at his own lips despite himself. Despite the fact it had been anything but funny at the time. "Something about not burning the waffles. It seemed to be very important to you at the time."

Sam cringed but Dean just smiled wider at his embarrassment, because that was the way it was supposed to be.

Silently Sam drew his arm back under the covers, pulling them up around him with a slight shiver, and the grin faded.

"You should rest," Dean instructed. Sam was breathing, no-longer blue nor cold to the touch, but he still looked exhausted. As much as Dean wanted to sit here with him and have him be awake, that was what Dean wanted, not what Sam needed.

"Are you hungry? Do you think you can manage some soup? Lump free." Dean would know his throat was sore even if he didn't wince every time he swallowed. The fact he hadn't been bombarded by a million questions, that Sam had barely said anything at all, was testament to that. In fact, he'd been more vocal when he'd been soaking wet and blathering about waffles. "Might help you feel warmer, build your strength up." He cringed slightly at his need to justify every word.

Sam looked thoughtful and nodded through a frown, which Dean took to mean 'not really but if it will make you feel better…' and Dean decided it would, so he would get soup. "There's a store across the street, I'll be, like, two minutes." He really didn't want to have to go but if they were going to stay here they would need some supplies eventually. He had left Sam unsupervised for two hours while he'd slept, he could do it for two minutes.

"Well, okay then," but as Dean stood up to go he found Sam's hand on his arm again, his grip firmer, his eyes narrowed, the question more urgent this time. Because maybe he was a little slow but he had just remembered why they had been out at the lake in the first place.

"'s it finished?" he attempted when it was clear Dean was having a harder time working out what he was getting at this time. "The…"

"Yeah, the sucker's gone," Dean assured him, bitterly. It had known it was finished. It was what it had done with its last few seconds on earth that caused Dean to wish it wasn't just so he got to kill it again, and remember to really savour it this time. "Okay?"

Sam nodded and smiled and sunk back against his pillows as though the effort and those few words had exhausted him. When a questioning eye opened and let him know he was staring, Dean retreated hurriedly from the room, determined to get soup and get back before Sam even realised he was gone.

-0-

Dean had been right; the hot liquid was warming, and as long as the sips were small it soothed his throat. Too large a mouthful and he risked coughing it up onto his lap and his stomach muscles really didn't want a repeat of that performance.

Unfortunately, the cup was also heavy. He was holding it with both hands as it was, but even that did little to steady it. He could see Dean watching him out of the corner of his eye, literally biting his cheek to stop him from saying anything. Dean had already expressed the desire to just hold the damn thing for him but Sam had scowled and batted him away. And okay, that would have been more effective if he hadn't actually missed Dean completely and nearly dropped the soup all down himself while doing it, but it had got the message across for now.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Dean's help, but the level of concern was unnerving somehow. Because Dean didn't show concern that easily. Sam didn't need the aches and the debilitating fatigue to tell him what had happened, just Dean's strained and pinched expression, which if possible made him feel even worse and he would have paid to erase it. Hopefully exhibiting some degree of independence would achieve that, even if it was wearying beyond reason.

Sam hadn't even realised he'd been staring into space until Dean was back in the forefront of his vision, and the half eaten cup of soup, cold now, was being coaxed out of his lax grasp. He watched Dean set it down out of the way ruefully. So much for managing simple tasks without aid.

"Your body took a hammering. Give it time, dude; it might take a while to get your strength back up. It's not like we've got anywhere we need to be."

Sam nodded and gave an absent grunt of assent. Well if Dean was going to be all understanding and logical about it… But Sam was too tired for logical. He was too tired for much of anything, and he didn't want to be.

Dean sat back on his own bed and set to channel hopping, and Sam found for once that his new attention span was in tune with his brother's inability to pick a station and just watch something. His whole body felt heavy, like the weight of it was dragging him down into the bed. He hated being this weak. Being unable to even voice his needs made him feel utterly dependent on Dean, but the alternative was a frightening prospect, one it would not do well to dwell on, so he would accept the situation for the time being. And it wasn't as though Dean seemed to have actually noticed – or, of course he'd noticed, perhaps the right word was _questioned_ – his new level of heightened responsibility. He just got up and fetched juice when he thought Sam wanted it, rearranged pillows, and practically carried Sam to the bathroom like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean had just settled Sam back down comfortably after an aborted attempt to eat yogurt and was back to staring at the TV screen again, but for some reason Sam found his white knuckled grip on the remote and furious stabbing of the buttons more compelling. It was possible he still had strawberry dairy products in his airway, but he wasn't going to risk moving again or breathing in too deeply to find out. Food was definitely not his friend, but Dean's hands had been there bracing him and his voice was soothing and calm, even if Sam couldn't always make out the words, and the bed was ridiculously comfortable and seemed to zap him of the energy to make them out.

Sam decided to ignore his brother's clenched fingers and twitching jaw and focus instead on what Dean had finally settled on.

Great. Because they didn't see enough eviscerated prostitutes in their own lives.

One minute Gill was examining blood-splatter, the next he was facing off against a giant squid. Quite why he'd been called in for _that_ investigation Sam would never be sure, because the next thing he knew CSI had merged into some martial arts flick that had Dean snorting derisively so often Sam couldn't help but wonder why he was bothering to watch it at all. But the next time he looked at the screen a gang of ninjas were taking on a herd of Amazonians with a limited clothing budget, and he figured he probably had his answer right there.

He would have called Dean on his crappy taste in movies – he wanted to go back and find out what happened with Gill and the squid – but it was hard to say much of anything when your head was tilted upwards and you were being force fed painkillers. At least Dean gave some warning this time and he knew to prepare himself before swallowing, which, okay, was still more painful than he'd expected and a lot more exhausting than it should have been. But if the puddle of drool his face was lowered back into was anything to go by he seemed to have more or less given up on that bodily function altogether.

The next thing Sam knew the room was in total darkness and someone was arranging bedclothes around his shoulders. A hand rested on his forehead and a voice told him 'sleep'. Sam wanted to ask who'd won, he ninjas or the Amazonians, but before he could get his tongue unglued from the roof of his mouth the figure had moved away, and he'd already given in to its commend and was fast asleep.

-0-

Sam was aware of two things almost simultaneously; how badly he needed the bathroom and his brother's snoring. It was dull light of early morning that was creeping in through the curtains and for a while he was too warm and comfortable, and Dean's breathing was again exhibiting a hypnotic effect, for him to want to move. But then his bladder reminded him that he had barely moved for the last 24 hours, and it was about time he at least attempted to do so.

He sat up gingerly and swung his legs out of bed. He was actually sitting upright unsupported, which was more exciting than it should have been, but Dean was sleeping and Sam wouldn't wake him to assist with the four steps to the bathroom door. If he set their day off on that note then that would be how it would progress, and that would be good for neither of them.

He stood gently, leaning one hand on the bedside cabinet for leverage, the other bracing his chest as best he could, and he knew he would avoid looking at the bruising there in the mirror for at least a couple of days. It was bad enough that his nerve endings, and Dean's sideways glances, reminded him they were there.

And why.

The head rush passed quickly and the five – so he had underestimated slightly – hesitant steps to the bathroom were wobbly at best, and he couldn't deny the relief of being able to lean on the door frame when he got there, but he made it without falling over or choking so that was an improvement on anything he had managed to do the day before.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that made him wince; he could already hear the responding shift in the rhythm of his brother's breathing, and since he still didn't want to risk calling out too loudly to reassure his brother when Dean started hollering, Sam resigned himself to finishing up quickly and trying to make it back out again before Dean realised he hadn't locked the door.

Dean was still wondering what had sent him snorting awake at such a nothing hour – obviously it was Sam, when was it ever _not _Sam – so he had barely had time to adequately respond to the empty bed across from him before the bathroom door was opening again and his brother made a reappearance. He was leaning heavily on the door frame, but even as Dean was cursing and throwing himself out of bed to grab him, Sam pushed off and made a few hesitant steps back into the room.

Sam winced and held up one hand to ward his brother away, and while he was frowning, Dean grudgingly stood aside and let Sam shuffle his way back into bed.

Sam chuckled lightly at the grunt of approval he was given when Dean realised it was the bed he was aiming for. He'd got the sitting and the leaning under control, even if the walking part had been less than graceful, but that didn't mean that the bed wasn't the most appealing thing in the room right now.

"You're feeling better this morning, then." It was a statement, and Sam was unsure if it was a positive one.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat slightly, relieved that it didn't feel nearly so abused as it had when he'd gone to sleep. It was still sore from all the coughing, and the other thing he would not be thinking about, but talking no-longer caused his eyes to water. "And hey, looks like I got my voice back."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing, 'cos I have to say, I was kinda likin' the whole 'Silent Sammy' thing you had going on. So you've got your voice… but apparently not your aim," Dean mocked as the empty soda can Sam threw at him sailed harmlessly passed his ear, missing it by feet. "That was just sad, little brother."

Sam settled back into his pillows and tried to look like he was above dignifying that with a response, not that he had just run out of things within easy reaching distance that he could throw.

"Seriously though, how you feeling?"

"Good."

Dean frowned.

"Well not _good_, but better." He still sounded hoarse, which was annoying, not that that was going to stop him. "So, I was thinking…"

"It's too early in the morning to cope with _I was thinking_."

Sam frowned at the casual way that he was dismissed; Dean actually turned his back on Sam and made an elaborate show of re-making his bed, retrieving the covers that he had tossed aside in the night so that it would be more comfortable when he very deliberately got back in it.

"Yeah but still," Sam attempted before Dean could lie down and shut him out completely. "I was thinking that, maybe, since I'm not feeling quite so feeble, we should hit the road this morning…"

"No."

"I don't mean _now_. Like, morning. Head over to Oakville. Didn't you say they had issues with a possible Kelpie over…?"

"That thing's been stuck in that well for the last fifteen years. Unless they plan on demolishing it in the next few hours I think it's safe to say it will still be there in a couple of days." Dean managed to sound both dismissive and firm in a way that made Sam feel instantly about 12 years old. Like his input had no bearing what-so-ever on what Dean might choose to do. Would not even be taken into consideration.

"But we can still…"

"I said _no_ Sam! _God_!" Sam actually flinched as Dean took his anger out on his pillow with one swift thump that set the whole bed shaking. "Just go back to sleep and we'll…" Dean sighed and settled himself back down in bed, still not looking at Sam, and Sam suddenly didn't have the energy to ask what it was Dean intended that they would do.

He shuffled himself back under his covers, stifling a wince as he tried to get more comfortable, unable to account for why the fact he was feeling better this morning had somehow managed to irritate Dean from the get go in a way that having to fetch and lift and wipe away his drool the day before had failed to. But Dean must have heard the way his breath hitched in that annoying way he was always attuned to every one of Sam's weaknesses, because while he still wouldn't turn and face him, Dean broke the silence non-the-less.

"Sam?"

He tried not to, but Sam couldn't help but smile at the way Dean could always seem to offer an apology without actually offering one at all. It was in the inflection of his voice rather than the words themselves, so that Sam could take it without Dean having to feel like he'd given anything away.

"Yeah?"

"Let's just… Can we just stay here today? Just stay here today… please?"

Dean sounded so raw that there was really nothing that Sam could say other than, "Okay." It came out sounding much hoarser than he'd intended, and he hoped Dean didn't realise it had nothing to do with his physical bruises.

"Good." Dean issued sleepily, snuggling back down, and Sam could see him visibly relax for the first time since he'd caught Sam out of bed.

-0-

Dean could hear Sam's breath even out into a doze and finally felt safe turning to face him again. He hadn't liked that Sam had been so sleepy, but he hadn't expected to like the prospect that he might not be, even less. That Sam would suggest they check out this morning had been fairly predictable, especially with their next gig already semi-lined up and partially agreed on, but Dean had been hoping to avoid it none-the-less. Oakville was only a couple of hours away, and once they were there they would have nothing to focus on but the hunt.

If Sam couldn't walk in a straight line, carry a shot gun, or holler if he needed help then there was absolutely no way that they were leaving this room, and Dean couldn't help but be proud that he had been able to form that in such a logical way. That he could pick out any logical thought at all beneath the 'no, no, no, no, no, no, _no'_ that was his mind's reaction to taking on another job right now. He knew that Sam knew how close it had been – he'd asked no questions and avoided talking about it at all if it could be helped, which was a relief - but while close calls were something that, to some degree, he had learnt that they had to live with, _that_ close a call was something he could happily live without. Ever again.

All hunts came with a danger factor – when he was feeling blasé that was what made them fun – but the end result, the lives they saved, the innocence that they protected, was usually worth the cost.

But there was nothing - _nothing - _that was worth that price.

Sam was here by choice but it was Dean that had brought him back into it. Dean that had picked this job. That had been standing safely away from the shore the entire time. Sam wasn't ready for a new hunt right now, and even if he was, Dean knew for a fact there was no way _he _was up to it. It might have been contained in a well but it was still a water spirit, and he needed more time before he could consider facing another one of those.

He just hoped that Sam wasn't going to force him to admit as much.

Sam was quiet when Dean finally decided that he had stalled long enough, and set the day in motion. He was already awake, curled up and reading with his book propped open on the mattress while Dean got out of bed, showered and dressed, and headed out to find them breakfast. But Dean knew the reprieve wouldn't last long. A quiet Sam was an appraising Sam; was strategising how it wanted to proceed.

All Dean knew was that he didn't want Sam to proceed at all.

-0-

Sam might not be feeling at his best, but he wasn't dense. Sam had a few vague memories of the water, the cold, the taste of the lake, and the burning of lungs that filled up with more than just air - but that was all they were; vague at best. Like a corrupted home movie that he knew had several scenes missing. That's colour and impact were dulled. The clearest part for him was the way this had ended; was waking up in that motel bed, or even those peaceful moments of pre-waking when he understood that there had been pain and horror but he could feel only safe.

Sam _knew _what had happened. Knew from piecing together the clues and filling in the blanks from his own hazy recollections. What _had_ to have happened to get from the bottom of the lake to sitting in bed prodding oatmeal with a plastic spoon.

It was Dean that had lived it. Dean's eyes that were clouded by its shadow.

Even though he was fairly certain he would be able to sit in the car and watch Dean drive without any problems, and couldn't help but think it would be good for Dean too if he would let him, he didn't think now was the time to bring that up.

Running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it sent fine particles of silt showering onto the bed around him. He glanced surreptitiously sideways at his brother, hoping he hadn't seen it, but from the smirk lining Dean's features Sam gathered that he had. He'd been too tired to really care about it the day before, but now it suddenly occurred to him that he smelt like a wet dog.

"Okay, showering," he groaned, not sure how he had failed to notice how the smell of lake water had been allowed to fester.

He heaved himself out of bed again, trying to ignore Dean's slightly appraising look. Or the way he signed extravagantly at the moan Sam issued as he bent down to hook his bag and clothes off the floor.

"You know, you could have just asked."

"Yeah, I know," Sam agreed, fingering the slightly crusty clothes he had been wearing the night before last, which Dean had obviously stripped off him and left abandoned on the floor.

Something else he didn't really want to have to think about.

"Leave them. There's a Laundromat in the basement, I was gonna head down later."

Sam nodded, ignoring Dean's disgruntled sigh as he sifted through his bag and started to assign clothes to the laundry pile.

"Yeah, 'cause I'm just your personal slave," Dean muttered, moving to put a stop to him.

"I could come with you." Sam offered, earning him an even fiercer scowl. "Or not."

"Just shut up and shower," Dean griped, turning Sam gently and propelling him in the direction of the bathroom. "Before we have to start disinfecting everything you touch."

Sam sighed and allowed himself to be herded out of the room. When Sam turned, Dean shoved a wash bag, a semi-clean t-shirt and a pair of sweats in his arms, before closing the bathroom door in his face. He looked down at the clothes he was given – a silent instruction to take it easy and not leave their motel room – and he knew they weren't going to talk about it, even though he'd promised himself that this time they would.

They weren't going to talk about it, because they never did. It was the not talking about it that meant they could get back in the car again the next day, move on to another town or another job, and try not to think about the next time they would do this; the complete inevitability of the next bedside vigil.

But maybe that didn't have to matter. Ninety per cent of Dean's communication was non-verbal, at least the stuff that really mattered, and Sam had had twenty-three years to learn his language.

Perhaps it was more effective to tease and watch bad TV, play cards and complain about his brother's eating habits, to simply _be_, than it was to get Dean to relax any other way.

And when they left here and they still had the car and the road and each other, a warm presence in the seat beside them and their ability to laugh. When the music was blaring out so loudly it blocked out all thought, perhaps that could be enough.

THE END


End file.
